


baby

by bloodrunsred



Series: just a little bit broken [13]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Autistic Morty Smith, Bottom Morty Smith, Disassociation, Emotional Manipulation, Graphic Description, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mental Breakdown, Rick Being an Asshole, Top Rick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-02 15:06:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19201357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodrunsred/pseuds/bloodrunsred
Summary: The thing about Rick is that he's unique, and no-one can tell him otherwise.





	baby

**Author's Note:**

> giving the people what they want
> 
> seriously triggering, nearly made myself sick writing it, please don't read if descriptive rape/noncon will hurt you. i remember when i didn't think i would be physically capable of writing something so graphic, and here we are. is this personal growth?

Morty had never really understood the importance of firsts.

What's so important about the first drink you have, the first kiss, the first girlfriend? What's so good about the first anything, if you're just going to have more later? There's a million people who would try and tell him differently, and explain why he's wrong in terms that he wouldn't be able to understand, but at least Rick always gets what he means.

Grandpa Rick hasn't been living with them for very long; maybe three weeks, not even a month, but he's already Morty's favourite adult in the house. He gives Morty small presents from alien worlds, and takes him places that he couldn't have ever dreamed of. He also offers Morty attention in droves; always needing a hand in the garage, or letting him sit near him while he explains a project. He hadn't expected for a grandparent to be anything more than warm and cuddly, plump and comfortable with sitting in a chair all day. Rick is different, though, all sharp corners and rough edges. He's smart, freakishly so, and Morty can't help but want to be just like him.

The thing about Rick is that he's unique, and no-one can tell him otherwise.

His father hears the worst of Rick's stinging barbs--Morty hears some insults too, of course, but it's always watered down with a smile that tugs at Rick's lips, or an over-dramatic roll of his eyes. He likes to think it's because he's Rick's favourite, but it's far more likely that it's because he's the youngest in their household, with stubborn amounts of baby-fat still clinging to his cheeks and hips. Everyone likes to treat him like he's glass. 

Rick doesn't seem like the type to care about age--everyone is an idiot, compared to him--but Morty imagines he has a soft spot for something, somewhere. 

The only thing about Rick is that he's not the perfect housemate. 

He keeps coming into Morty's room at night.

At first it had freaked him out; enough that he had accidentally kicked out and left Rick with a swollen cheek the first time he had stumbled in, falling onto Morty's bed. Morty values his space, and he values his privacy--even though Rick is his grandpa, he still doesn't know him well enough to give him more lenience than he does his own parents. Even if he is learning to trust Rick more than them.

Rick likes to keep to his promises--or, at least the ones he makes with Morty. He plays it off as trying to show Earth technology up, or just making sure Morty knows how smart he is, but it's easy to see Rick as caring when he portals into school to get him so he doesn't have to deal with bullies and classes that don't make sense. He's well and truly made sure that Morty knows he can count on him, if his parents ever let him down in one inevitable way or another. 

He still cares about his parents, though. 

The morning after Morty had accidentally kicked Rick had been tense. Mom had been shooting Rick worried stares, like she was afraid he would run off and never come back, and glaring at Morty after Rick had told everyone what had happened.

"Accidentally--I scared the little fucker last night," he had laughed, winking at Morty as he poked his fork at another pancake. "He's got a mean k-kick, that's for sure!"

Morty had just been glad that he hadn't been in more trouble; Mom had tried to ground him, but Rick had waved the punishment away. A sweet smile directed at Mom, a quick pat on her shoulder, and she was putty in his hands, and more than willing to let the whole situation go.

Morty never forgot the look on her face. The anger, the heartbreak, the betrayal, all gathering on her face like a storm settling over water. Morty had hurt her, badly, without even thinking about it. He knew, then, that if Rick ever did leave, someone was going to be blamed for it. He didn't ever want it to be him--her anger was infamous, and her control was less-than perfect after a glass of five of wine--so he had done what any rational person would have.

He let Rick sleep in his room.

He's gotten used to it, in the few weeks since it has started; the way his room had begun to smell uniquely like Rick, motor oil and alcohol thick in the air. The weight of Rick draping himself across his legs, his feet, his torso. It's just a normal part of life, now, just like it had been normal for Summer to cook dinner before Rick came. After Rick, Mom had taken over. Morty still doesn't truly understand why, but he's heard Summer muttering about it on the phone to whoever her best friend is that week. 

"I guess she wants to prove that she's a good Mom? I don't know, all I know is that it's  _super_ annoying that everyone's forgotten who used to make them food. Like, rude, much?"

He guesses it's not all bad. He likes a little attention, even if it is just his grandpa passing out in his room, or his Mom cooking bland meatballs and soggy pasta. It reminds him of the families he saw on television all the time when he was really little, with Grandpa Rick's quips, and his mother's more pleasant attitude when it comes to doing anything at all.

He's lying in bed, his quilt rumpled and wrapped around him, waiting for Rick before he lets himself go to sleep. It's so much harder to drift off again, when Rick slams his door loud enough to make his heart jump to his throat, and his head spin from jolting upright so quickly. His clock is ticking, the sound almost too loud against the quiet of his room, pounding at the same steady pace of his breathing.

His door swings open, and his breathing is faster than the ticks.

Rick is drunk, Morty can tell that much even with the poor angling of his neck and face that prevents him from seeing the older man clearly. He always is, of course, but there's a little more force in Rick's steps, a little more shuffling that is a tell that he's absolutely wasted. More than a little buzzed, more than a little tipsy--he's only been this way in front of Morty a few times, and each time makes him more uncomfortable than the last. It feels wrong; his Mom is an alcoholic, there's no denying that, but her tipsy giggles are nothing compared to the way Rick seems to be less human whenever he drinks.

Each time Rick gets like this, Morty can only remember the vague feelings of uncertainty, worry, and a sadness so deep it reaches his bones, turning them cold and heavy in a way that's new and scary. Sleep isn't coming easy--it's not new, per se, because he's always been like this--and Rick doesn't exactly help.

"Mmmorty," Rick says, and Morty can feel the sharp edges of his ribs against his feet, as Rick drags himself over the covers. The pressure isn't comforting as much as it's stifling, the blankets growing damp with drool and sweat, and the room rising in temperature. "Morty, b-baby, my--my best buddy..."

He also remembers the nicknames.

His mind is blank and buzzes with too many sweet names that don't have any place in his bedroom. It makes his heart rise in his throat--he thinks of his mother, and the fact that she used to call him that too, but it never seems to be the same coming from Rick. They're different people, which makes it different, but associating it with his mother makes him feel like he's swallowed dirt, and the taste of grime won't leave his tongue.

"'M not a baby," he murmurs, turning until his face is squashed against his pillow. Rick's head is trapped beneath his chin, the wiry strands of his hair tickling the skin there. Morty shifts, and Rick follows the movement.

"Y-yeah," Rick's lips are wet against his neck, raising goosebumps. It's slimy and unpleasant, and there's no more room for Morty to move away. "All--you're all grown up, Morty, aren't you? Not a baby, you're my--you're my big boy."

Somehow, and for a reason Morty can't quite put his finger on, that almost makes him feel worse. Because he  _is_ a big boy, and he  _isn't_ a baby, but hearing Rick call him his makes something in his stomach turn. He shouldn't feel weird--Rick is his grandpa, his family, after all--but he can't help but be all-too aware of the way Rick is lying on him, leg slung over his hip. It's hot, and heavy, and there's no wiggle room at all.

Rick's still mouthing words against the column of his throat, noiseless words that burn with alcohol. 

His Mom has never held him quite like this; even when he was younger, and she was drunk to the point of no return, she had never been a touchy person. She was always more likely to shy away from his hugs, or lock herself away in her bedroom, which made him unsure. Dad was infinitely more clingy than Mom, but both Morty and Summer had been taught early on that he only did it to get something. 

Summer had stopped hugging their Dad long ago, and Morty followed suit.

And even he never hugged Morty like Rick is hugging him now, and Morty has never felt so completely and utterly crushed before as he does beneath his grandpa's wiry body. 

"Rick, you--you're crushing me," he manages to say, his voice thick and choked. It's true enough; Rick's chest against his is making him think carefully about every breath, and Rick's mouth against his throat is making him worry about swallowing the saliva that has pooled in his mouth. "C'mon, let me up, you can't just--you're not allowed to just come in here and take up a-all my personal space."

Rick laughs, a drunken slur that has his tongue pressing out, and licking a long stripe down Morty's flesh. Cold air hits the spot, and Morty squirms instinctively. "Yeah," Rick says again. "I can." His hold tightens, fingers spread apart as he presses down against bones and baby-fat that hasn't melted away into muscle yet. There's no doubt in Rick's words, and Morty can't help but bite his lip.

This is normal, right? This is how grandparents hold their grandchildren, and this is what they normally do, Morty is certain. Because if it isn't, what else does this mean? What else does Rick's tongue against the shell of his ear, or his hand that's laying flat against his ass?

"What are you doing?" His words are slow and steady, his stutter lost in the haze of sleepiness he's found himself lost in. Rick's head rises from the crook of Morty's shoulder to look him in the face, his cold eyes foggy and unfocused. There's a moment of silence, then two, until Rick leans closer. The stench of vodka seeps from his open mouth and Morty cringes, his face drawing up in disgust. Morty tries to jerk his head back as he moves closer still, but one of Rick's hands has entangled itself in Morty's curls, stopping him in his tracks.

Rick kisses him.

It's teeth against closed lips, an awful pressure, and an unspoken demand:

_Let me in._

Morty hates it. His eyelids have sealed themselves shut, and his lips have pressed themselves together just as firmly; his nose stings with every inhale, just as tears prick at his eyes. It feels wrong, and there's a sunken stone in his stomach that makes him feel like he's going to throw up--why is Rick doing this? This shouldn't be normal, right?--all the while Rick is panting like a dog against his face.

Morty kicks his legs, and twists his torso to no avail. Even drunk, Rick has positioned himself in such a way that he has Morty pinned like a butterfly to a cork board. Helpless. Sleep has been chased from his mind, and he just wants out, so he can have just five minutes of air. He can't breathe, not like this, and Rick's hands are wandering down his pants, up his shirt, touching him all over... 

Rick licks his tears away, his yellow teeth bared in a vicious grin as he finally,  _finally_ pulls away. It's too late, because Morty has been well and truly shattered, his breathing too hasty, his cheeks and eyes wet. There's a knot in his chest that refuses to undo itself, pulling tighter and tighter until he thinks he might explode. He reels back fast enough to make his skull thud against the headboard with a sickening crack, and stays still, suspended in time as he tries to gather himself. His mind is buzzing, no room for coherent thought.

He wants answers. He wants to know what's happening, and he wants to know why Rick is hurting him.

"R-rick," he pushes himself into the corner of his bed, squeezing his pillow in an attempt to ground himself. Rick has sat back on his haunches, tracking his every movement with an animalistic intent that makes Morty want to scream and cry, and ask for his Mom. The words catch in his throat and dance on the tip of his tongue, but he can't shout. He can't yell and, well, there's a chance no-one would come and help him if he did. "It's me, it's--it's me, Morty, your grandson..."

Maybe Rick is just too drunk. He's too drunk to realise it's Morty that he's kissing. Maybe they'll be able to go to bed, separately, and forget this ever happened at all.

Rick remains impassive. His expression never changes, his confidence never seems to waver. Morty folds in on himself even more, his entire body hurting in conflicting and confusing ways. He can still feel Rick's fingers against his spine, his lips against his. It feels like those touches are apart of him now, burned into his brain and flesh like no other experience has.

"I know," Rick's hand presses forward, and he's crawling toward Morty like a predator. "God, I--I know, my Morty, my beautiful--mine. Y-you're going to let me have you, aren't you? My good boy, Morty--"

Morty could kick him away. He should, realistically; this isn't good, and he really just wants to fall asleep. He wants this to be a fucked up nightmare because he watches too much porn, and he has weird psycho-reasons for making stuff like this up. He needs to get up and walk out, but his legs are numb. Ice has flooded his body, leaving him stiff and unable to move. 

Rick has apparently come to the same realisation. His fingers trail up the leg of Morty's pyjama pants, his knees spreading outward until they are settled either side of Morty's narrow hips. Morty only comes up to Rick's chest, forcing Rick to hunch his back as he lets most of his weight fall on Morty's lap. The action forces Morty's legs into the mattress, a dull pain spreading to infect the rest of his limbs.

Morty meets Rick's eyes for the second time that night, and Rick leans down again. 

He knows what's going to happen, his head turning before his brain has fully caught up. He's whimpering, he can hear himself like he's a spectator just watching the scene unfold; he's brought his hands up to press against Rick's chest, stopping him from using his full weight to break Morty completely. It won't stop Rick, not if he truly wants to lean his body against Morty, but it makes him feel like he has some control in this situation; some modicum of dignity. 

Something in him cracks when Rick tugs at his jaw, and he  _begs._

"P-please," he sobs, tears sliding freely down his cheeks, his voice so high and frightened he almost doesn't recognise it. Rick hums, loosening his grip on Morty's face to pet lightly through his hair. "Rick, I--I don't know w-what I did, I don't know, but I don't want you to do this. P-please, what are you--"

Rick presses his forehead against Morty's his lips dangerously close. It's a position that feels new and familiar, one that leaves Morty almost breathless in its implications. Rick sighs, a long, drawn-out sound that makes Morty feel strangely lost. "You do," he says, and there's no room to question him. "God, I haven't--the other times, we haven't even gone far, b-but you can take me, right? Yeah--" he grinds down, and Morty gasps, "--I know you, I know you can, baby." 

_Other times._

This has happened before? Morty searches his memories, rummaging through his mind and comes up empty-handed. There are the nights, where he can't remember anything past the nicknames and drunkenness, but that's just him being tired. It has to be, because the other option is ludicrous. Rick can't control minds, or wipe memories away,or do anything like that--but Rick's a genius, almost a god, and Morty doesn't doubt that he can do anything.

"Please--please, Rick, please, I don't want it--"

A large, weathered hand presses against his mouth and Rick straightens his back, towering over Morty like a monster over a meal. His brow is creased, his mouth twisted into a bitter scowl that would have stolen the words from Morty's mouth whether Rick had his hand there or not. 

He knows his role; in a Hollywood movie, he would be kicking and screaming, biting and scratching. That's what he's supposed to be doing, that's who he's supposed to be--but Rick is his grandpa, Rick is his friend, and he can't just  _hurt_ him. The idea barely crosses his mind before it's squashed by the pain, the exhaustion, the terror, and Morty finds himself leaning into the wall and letting Rick move him like he's a little doll. 

Rick shuffles them down, and Morty lets his burning face fall to his pillow, his hair just barely grazing his bedpost. Rick is fumbling with the buttons of his night-shirt, running his hands over the expanse of Morty's smooth chest once he's finished, and pulling the fabric off entirely while Morty lays pliant. His mind is somewhere else as Rick buries his face in his chest, mouthing and biting at the skin there. He feels dumb, and dull, and not quite like a person when Rick loosens the strings of his pyjama pants, slipping them down his thighs until they're tangled by his calves.

He regrets not putting on underwear. Rick would have just taken them off too, but it feels like he's offering himself, like Rick will think he wants this. 

_He doesn't want this._

Rick is gasping, rough and broken, like the sight of Morty is enough to leave him shaking like a junkie going into withdrawal. All Morty can focus on is how his pillow is already damp from sweat and tears, how his nose is so blocked that he has to gasp for a sliver of oxygen to keep the black around the edges of his vision at bay. He doesn't want to be awake, but he can't be asleep, or unconscious like this. Not here, not with Rick. 

He can almost imagine that it's not Rick, that it's someone else that he likes, or wants, but he's twelve--all he knows is that he kind of likes a girl named Jessica who goes to school with him--and he can't imagine being with her like this. He doesn't think he wants to be with anyone like this, and that somehow makes it harder to understand what he's feeling when Rick grabs at his cock. 

Morty's masturbated before. He has a computer and his own bedroom, so he's experimented just a little bit; enough to know that it can feel good to mess around a little when there's no-one watching.

But Rick is watching; his eyes are burning holes in Morty's skin, and it's not like when he's done it by himself. He's normally hesitant, unsure if being too rough would hurt, or if being too slow would hurt too. Rick doesn't have the same issue--his hand is rough, with no lube to ease the slide as he eases his hand up and down, his thumb swiping over the slit of Morty's dick to catch a drop of pre-cum that shouldn't be there.

Morty's chest is heaving, his body twisted at an unnatural angle as he tries to get away--or, a shameful part of him thinks as a fire heats in his belly, get closer--he's not liking this. He's positive, he hates how his body is sticky, and how he feels heavier than a rock, but he has to be liking it. Why else would he be reacting the way he is, why else would his body want him to arch up even as he's choking back the vomit that's trying to rise in the back of his throat. Rick is still sitting on his thighs, leaving him still and entirely at Rick's mercy. 

He needs to scream. Every part of his body is begging for something different, his head spinning in a way that makes him feel like he's on a carousel ride, and the feeling of wrongness makes his blood curdle wherever Rick touches him. He opens his mouth, to make a sound that he knows deep down won’t be loud enough to do much of anything, and can hardly form a syllable before Rick slaps him.

It’s backhanded, the force behind his knuckles making Morty’s head snap to the side. A small  _oh_ escapes Morty’s bruised and swollen lips, a wheeze that's made small by the air rushing out of his lungs. Rick’s not touching him  _there_  anymore—whether that’s good or bad, Morty can’t tell--but then his hands are wrapping around Morty’s throat, pushing firmly so he has to look Rick in the face.

It’s not tight or bruising like he might have expected from Rick, but it’s not loose either.

"N-no screaming, my--my lil' buddy," Rick says, his eyes probing as he turns Morty's head to take a better look at his cheek. He eyes the tear-tracks there, being liquid still falling steadily from Morty's eyes. "Y-you don't want anything bad--our family, Morty, our family is just down the hall." His hands drop from Morty's neck, and return to his cock. Morty bites at his bottom lip in anticipation, his hands scrambling for anything to hold onto as Rick starts to move again. "You really want--you think they'd take your side? With you moaning like a--like a little bitch when I touch you?"

Morty freezes and, for the first time that evening, he understands what Rick means.

If he calls out for help, and someone does get out of bed for him, then they're going to see him like this; splayed out on the bed entirely for Rick. They won't be able to see the poison spreading through his veins, or the fog that has his vision drifting in and out of focus. No, they'll see Rick doing things to him, and they'll see Morty letting him. Rick chuckles, dark and deep in Morty's ear, his hand still moving at the fast, drunken pace. 

"Please," Morty says, and he feels like a broken record. Rick just moans like he's been slugged in the gut, his voice strained with a certain needy quality that makes Morty want to  _die._ "I won't tell--"

"I know you won't."

His voice is still slurred, but it's clearer than anything else he's said tonight, quiet and so matter-of-fact that Morty lets his mouth close with a sharp click. 

He's not allowed to do this, Morty isn't allowed to let him do this, but there's nothing for it; if he tries to fight back, if his limbs decide to cooperate, Rick will just knock him back down. If he tells his Mom, or Dad, or Summer, they won't believe him. If they do, Rick will just tell them a lie, like when he lied about taking Morty to the doctor just last week, and got them ice-cream instead. He could run in the morning, but Rick would just find him again. Morty's just small, and powerless, and Rick is Rick. 

He's still tense, but he decides to just give in and make a decision in the morning about what to do later. He can't think, with Rick's hand squeezing his cock almost painfully, forcing a hoarse cry from Morty's throat before Rick slams his hand over his mouth again. There's bound to be an imprint on his face later, a bruise to rival the size of Texas, but Morty is glad that Rick is helping him shut up so their family doesn't come and find them. He's grateful, so grateful it makes him feel sick to his stomach because that's not allowed. He's not allowed to love Rick anymore, or be his friend, or be close to him. He's not allowed to be grateful that someone, anyone, finds his stupid body attractive.

He knows people online who say that, when girls are r--are made to have sex, they should be happy that people want them enough to not ask first. And that if they did get turned on, it means they wanted it in the first place.

Is this the same as that?

Because Morty hates that he's turned on, his body reacting and his face flushing in a way he's never felt before. It's almost too much; all the feelings, and sensations that are travelling through his body, and the claustrophobic way Rick has him boxed in.

He whines, and Rick replaces his palm with the corner of a pillow, pressing gently against Morty's jaw to get him to bite down on it hard. The action is so soft and different from the way Rick is jacking him off that he feels the tears start anew; how can Rick be comforting, and nice, while making Morty feel the worst he's ever felt in his life? Rick is the hurricane, as well as the calm before the storm that Morty can feel brewing beneath his skin. Rick had said that they were going to go further, hadn't he? 

What Morty knows about sex is from online. The few sex-ed classes he attended has all been vague, and had all been about a man being with a woman. But the porn he had watched where the girl had been a 'virgin' had shown her screaming and crying because it had _hurt_. Everyone always says it hurts.

Morty doesn't like hurting.

Rick doesn't seem to notice the way Morty has stiffened even further, and just places his hands on each of Morty's quivering thighs. His moan is guttural and Morty lifts his hands to wipe at his face, covering his eyes like it'll shield him from what's happening. Even with his eyes covered, he can feel his stiff cock between his legs, and he can hear the sound of a belt clanging as it's removed and thrown to the side.

He hears fabric being pulled over Rick's head, and he tries not flinch when finally, finally, he's being touched again. 

Rick's arms are bare of everything, even his watches and gadgets, and Morty shudders as they slide against each other, sweat, tears and snot making them both clammy and sticky. Rick's pushing him onto his side, his own cock pressing against the cleft of Morty's ass as he kisses behind his ear in a way that's too sweet for this. Morty knows it's just meant to butter him up, and make him feel just a little bit better so his crying doesn't wake up the household, but that doesn't stop Morty from feeling just a little bit special. 

 _You're disgusting,_ his mind whispers, a traitor even now, even when his body doesn't even feel like his own rather than Rick's possession.

He knows, and there's a tense moment where only their breathing mingles ever so slightly in the quiet air. Rick runs his fingers down Morty's ass, sweeping into his crack, pressing lightly at his hole for just a second.

Morty tenses, and doesn't breathe as one dry finger dips into his hole, Rick's nails scraping at his walls in a way that makes him feel like he's nothing. Nothing and nobody. Rick's promises don't mean anything because he's pressing deeper, and deeper, and Morty's getting tenser, and  _itreallydoeshurtmakeitstop--_

His brain kicks in, and he's pushing Rick away before he even realises he's doing it, tugging the pillow from his mouth and turning himself so that he's on his back and crawling away like he had when this had all started. Rick stares in his general direction, lips slack and drool escaping to drip down his chin. He looks shocked, like he hadn't expected that Morty would actually try and get away. Like he thought Morty would just lie down and take it like a little bitch.

His grandpa--and it's his grandpa, Rick is his fucking grandpa and he's hurting him--reaches forward, and Morty thinks he might be hit again. Instead, defying all expectation, Rick just grabs at Morty's wrists, smiling a strange, distant smile. He coos, treating Morty like one might treat an injured puppy; Morty almost lets him too, almost lets the fight drain from his body like blood from a corpse, but then Rick is inching his fingers down again, and Morty knows he doesn't really care. He doesn't want that.

The fondling had felt familiar despite the fact that he can't remember why, but this? This is new and unfamiliar territory that he doesn't want to cross.

So he struggles, his forearms pressing against Rick's chest as he tries to pull his knees up, because this is  _different._ Touching him is different to--to doing  _that,_ and Morty knows that it's going to hurt, knows that this is something he's never, ever going to come back from. He doesn't want this, he doesn't want any of this, and he just wants anything that will help him get away. Rick is pressing him down, strong and unyielding, and that only makes Morty want to fight more. Rick is so much bigger and more powerful than him, and even though he's shushing him, soft and gentle, Morty knows it's just a lie. 

"No!" His voice is loud, too loud, but he can't bring himself to care as he teeters on the edge of hysteria. "No, Rick, please! I--I don't want to hurt, I don't want you to put it there, it's not going to fit! Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone--"

He repeats his mantra, over and over again, never not pushing Rick away. If he gives in, even once, it means that Rick's won. Rick tries to soothe him, pressing kisses to his eyelids, and whispering broken promises under his breath, but it's not enough. Morty can't breathe, and he thinks that he might be dying because he certainly doesn't feel alive, and Rick retreats.

Morty isn't sure that it actually happened, for a moment, and he cracks his eyes open to see Rick sitting back, his hair wild as ever, and his body trembling. He feels saved, he feels like he might have actually made Rick stop, which is something no-one has ever done before, when Rick runs his tongue over his chapped lips, and opens his mouth.

"Y-you're really going to--you're such a fucking pussy, Morty," Rick's voice is flat, and he doesn't blink. It's unsettling to say in the least. "You really--you couldn't wait to climb my dick the last time we did this, and now you're going to leave me with blue-balls? You're f-fucking pathetic. You're supposed to--you need to listen to your grandpa, M-mortyyy."

Morty blinks furiously, trying to understand exactly what Rick had said. It takes a moment for the words to sound like English, and another moment for them to arrange themselves in a way that makes sense. 

He... had wanted this? Before?

His first instinct tells him that Rick is lying. He can't remember any times before whatever this is, and all he can recognise is a tug in his gut at actions that his body has remembered while his mind has forgotten. He can't trust Rick; he's a pedophile, or something, but all Morty knows is that he's supposed to trust and listen to his grandpa. His mind is telling him two things at once, a lesson drilled in by Mom when Rick had first arrived, and a new instinct born of pain and confusion. 

Rick takes advantage of his mental break, and climbs upward once more. Morty doesn't make him get off, still trying to figure out if Rick's words make sense.

Rick plunders his lax mouth, his tongue slimy and heavy against Morty's. Morty turns confused eyes to him when he peels himself off, asking for some sense of clarification and answers he knows he won't find in Rick's mouth. Rick tugs Morty's legs from where he's tucked them against his chest, and forces them to spread as his whole body is dragged back until his crotch meets Rick's--

Their cocks rub against one another, Rick rutting not unlike an animal against the crease where Morty's thigh meets his groin. It feels good, and Morty feels sick.

"Y-you're right, Morty," he groans into Morty's ear, and Morty stares up at the ceiling. "This angle--I get to see your face here, Morty, and your dumb little expressions when I do this--" He captures the swell of Morty's bottom lip between his teeth, and Morty screws his face up, breathing raggedly in an attempt to keep himself from yelping. Rick stares at him like he's perfect, and Morty feels like he's not even there anymore.

He's floating. He's tried to get away, he's tried to beg, he's tried everything. Now he just needs to not exist for a while before he can go to bed and forget that Rick ever turned up on their doorstep. 

He pulls something from his discarded lab-coat with shaky hands, and Morty hears plastic tearing. He jolts as something cold and wet presses against his asshole, even as Rick encourages him to press down on his finger. Morty can't, though; no matter how disconnected he feels, he's still wound up tight, unable to relax in a way that would make this hurt just a little bit less. 

The finger slides in easier than it did the first time, the slick making the pressure just a little more bearable than it had been before. It still burns, and Morty tries to push away, with little avail. Rick just presses his face into his pillow, and pulls out too quickly in order to fit a second finger in. It's too snug, Morty's walls clenching furiously around the intrusion, and he can't help the wounded huff he lets out. His limbs are trembling like he's cold, which doesn't make sense because everything is much, much too hot.

"H-how many fingers do you need, baby," Rick asks, without really asking. His hips are rolling against Morty's thigh, and his fingers twist deeper until Morty has his back arched uncomfortably in an effort to make the seeking pressure go away. "J-just--just the two?"

Morty lets go of the pillow and shakes his head wildly, his curls bouncing with the movement; Rick is huge, and even he knows that he needs more than that. The only consolation is that the prep is supposed to take the pain away, and make him feel okay about all of this. His confidence is flagging with how much it hurts with just two fingers, and how impatient Rick is to get inside him.

It's his fault.

He tried to fight Rick off, and made him wait longer. If he had just been good and listened, Rick wouldn't be being so mean right now. 

Rick laughs again, and pulls his fingers free with a squelch that makes Morty feel sick. He rubs some of the excess lube on a third finger, along with some of the pre-cum dripping from his leaking cock. He presses them in and spreads them apart, and Morty grab the pillow to shove it in his own mouth, so no-one will hear how pathetic and disgusting he sounds, pained and scared, too small for Rick, and too dumb to understand what he needs to do to make it better.

Rick only spends around two more minutes stretching Morty, his impatience stemming from how drunk he is--though he's sobered down a lot since he had first come in, Morty knows that he still doesn't care what Morty is feeling. He doesn't care about anything but hurting Morty, and that realisation comes with a long whimper that does nothing but make Rick hornier. 

Rick is panting against his ear, and Morty knows that he can feel the tears that are still sliding in a steady stream over Morty's cheeks, and that he just doesn't care.

Rick is pressed against his ass, the tip of his dick twitching against Morty's hole, and Morty tries to shut his legs as much as he can with Rick's waist in the way. "R-rick!" He says desperately. "P-please, please put a--a condom on, please!" Rick snorts, his fingers pressing bruises into Morty's skin wherever he touches. He doesn't move, and Morty doesn't know how to make him. 

"I-I'm clean, Morty," he sounds almost offended, and the notion is  ridiculous to Morty. "Plus, i-it's not like you're going to get pregnant, you--you fucking idiot."

Morty wants to protest, but then Rick is biting down at his neck hard, and his body tenses just as the head of Ricks cock pops in. Morty shrieks, the sound muffled almost immediately by Rick's palm, twisting away from the intrusion as Rick pulls him down onto his length. The thick shaft pulses in Morty, and shock-waves of pain are radiating up Morty's spine as he claws at the sheets, Rick's back, anything tangible. Rick's back is curved, and Morty feels tiny as Rick thrusts into him, his feet not even reaching Rick's knees. The pain is worse than he had thought it would be; his body is too tense, and Rick having woefully under-prepared him for what he's being forced to accommodate. 

Rick rocks his hips forward again, and there's a cramping pain that rips through Morty's insides. His cock has long since wilted, and he beats at Rick's shoulders with his fists, begging him with words that can't pass the lump in his throat to just _slow down_. He can take it, he can be good and try and take it if Rick just lets him adjust first.

There's no time, and Rick has waited long enough.

Each slap of Rick's pelvis against his ass makes him want to scream, and he swears that something has torn. His muscles are contracting and squeezing, trying to keep Rick out while Rick just forces himself in. Rick doesn't fit all the way in, and he's seemingly content with that until he's pushing himself in again with a smooth, steady glide, and tries to go further still. There's a new kind of pressure building inside of Morty, and he scrabbles for Rick's shoulders--in a sick bid of comfort, or to push him away--until the pressure snaps like a rubber band, and Rick slides the rest of the way in. Morty stifles his scream in Rick's neck, his teeth biting down hard as Rick continues to _use_ him like he's just an object. 

Any pleasure he had felt before is washed away by this new, stabbing pain, and he doesn't know if that's a good thing or not. He doesn't know a lot of things, and he's never wanted to die as much as he does now, with self-loathing bubbling in his throat as Rick bottoms out over, and over again. It's not right, it's not okay, and all Morty can do is wait and take it. 

He takes it, and it hurts, and it doesn't get better, even when Rick brushes against something that makes Morty twitch involuntarily, and his brain white out. It could have gone on for hours, it could have gone on for minutes, and he doesn’t know because time doesn't mean a thing in this room. 

Not a fucking thing.

All he knows is that the darkness is clouding the edges of his vision again by the time Rick finishes, spilling his hot seed into Morty, and collapsing on top of him. Morty feels his ribs creak with the extra weight, and struggles to draw in the breath that will stop him from passing out. Like it takes all the effort and strength in the world, Rick rolls them over onto their sides, the position leaving him spooning Morty, and his softening cock slipping out of Morty's ass

Cum seeps out of Morty's stretched and battered asshole, and he finds himself staring, unblinking, at the wall. Rick's arm is slung around his waist pulling him close, and he can't push him away. He needs something to make him feel better, and Rick's his grandpa. Making Morty feel better is his job.

 _He's the one that hurt you in the first place,_ Morty's brain whispers, with what sounds like genuine curiosity. Morty ignores it. 

"Y-you won't remember this, Morty," Rick finally says, his words carrying in the silence of the room. "I'm--I'll make you forget."

It doesn't sound like an apology. But Morty wants it to be one, so it is.

"Are you--" His voice is hoarse and his throat is ripped from screaming. He can't yell, so he just whispers. "Are you going to--to do it again?"

He can feel Rick nodding above his head, his fingers squeezing briefly before tracing random patterns in Morty's skin. It's almost like he hasn't done anything wrong, and Morty doesn't know why it feels like Rick hasn't done anything wrong. He knows he has, but Rick is his grandpa. He can't blame him, can he? He's senile, or things were just different a long time ago. All Morty knows is that this is the first time he's been held in a long time, and he doesn't have any room left to care about anything. 

"You won't remember," Rick says again, and Morty lets his eyes slip shut. If he had anymore tears left, he would be crying, but Rick has hollowed out something in him and there's an emptiness to his very being that has everything and nothing to do with Rick's cock.

Rick squeezes him again, and Morty can almost pretend that Rick loves him.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i would,,, very much appreciate any honest feedback on my stories because i am feeling just a little self-conscious and would like to know what everyone else thinks! thanks so much, love y'all <3
> 
> this is my first time writing graphic sexual content, so let me know if it works?


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